


Topography

by ectoBisexual



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Emotionally unstable babies, Falling In Love, Hand Jobs, Lots and lots and lots of kissing, M/M, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectoBisexual/pseuds/ectoBisexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk has always been content with not being loved. Jake has a severe problem with being alone.<br/>They meet at a backpacking group in the middle of Africa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Topography

The first time, the stars spin.

The first time you meet him, you're in the middle of Africa and it's sweltering hot.

It started out as a tepid day; clement from your first step off the plane, might you note, and yeah, you'll admit you were a little smug. Take this, Chicago, you had thought, and then that hadn't been enough. Take this, home, take that, Jane, Roxy, Jade- they had all said that it would be sweltering hot all throughout the day and freezing cold all throughout the night and that you would want to come home. Like you're some petty city boy, shyeah right; you _grew up_ having adventures like this, and what's a few years away from the wilderness going to do to your immunity against hectic weather?

Quite a lot, apparently, because within the first hour you're sure you're dying- every last inch of your clothes stick to you, every piece of fabric clings with sweat- your hair is absolutely matted to your forehead- you can't see through the heat that, you're pretty sure, has somewhat melted your eyes right out of their sockets.

It's pretty gross.

You hadn't really gotten a good look at the group when you first arrived, because even by then you'd been dying with heat stroke, but- yeah, you really hope to God that there are no attractive people here to see you embarrass yourself like this, no one worth impressing. You figure you probably just need the night to mull it over, to pick up your strength and remember how to deal with tough situations. It's your cousin's fault, really, for pulling you off of the island in the first place three years ago and suggesting you go to college with her. As if the city is a place you're totally comfortable with.

So you did (after _much_ deliberation and argument, thank you very much) end up leaving to go stay with her, and have been living in the same dorm for the past three years. All of your friends are females, and while you're certainly not sexist, nor do you have anything against women, you have to admit that it's a little draining.

So it was a month ago, then, that you were sitting with your (only, female) three friends, and you said, "I think I might want to take a break."

"Okay," Jane said, "right. A break from what, exactly?"

"College," you said, and you remember quite well leaning back in your seat and trying not to pay attention to the bewildered look Jade had on her face. "I'm thinking about taking a, uh... what's it called, rats."

"Taking a year out, Jake?" Roxy drawled, like she was amused.

"A gap year, yeah," you said, clicking your fingers at nothing.

Jade had laughed at you; until she realised you were serious. "No."

"It's hardly your decision, Jade," you told her, sipping adamantly, defensively, at your coffee. The stuff was as bitter as the poor college grad who'd made it. "Besides, I think it would be fun, and I'm rather past the point of deciding now. I think an adventure would be good for once."

So you went, despite your cousin's _vehement_ protests ("You won't want to come back, and then all this time you've spent doing classes will be for nothing," she'd said at first. Then, later on, about two days before you had to leave, "You won't want to come back, and then you'll leave me here and I'll never get to see you again. You and your fucking adventures, Jake.")

Yes. You and your fucking adventures.

Finally- _finally_ \- your guide calls for your group of ten to stop, and you practically throw your bags to the floor, choking on your own relief.

And then you see him.

The first reaction is visceral; it's this deep, humming thing, somewhere low inside of you, a place you couldn't pinpoint if you were given a map and a million dollars, and then it's ebullient; your heart is alive, and it is screaming. _Yes! This is the one! This is the person who is going to change your life!_

In every movie now is the turning point in the protagonist's life, the moment in time when every villain ceases to matter and every ray of light sings. It doesn't happen like that. Maybe you were never the protagonist.

You wish you could say that you took the high road, took to actually bothering to learn his name rather than stalking from a distance, casting meandering glances his way whenever you thought he might not be looking; he was, almost every single time, and every time your eyes would meet you would smile like an idiot and he would just stare.

Something exciting courses through you for the rest of the day; you manage to clean most of the sweat from your forehead and body before you have to do much socializing, before dinner comes and everyone sits around the campfire playing those ice breaker games you suppose they'd have done in school. (You wouldn't know, but still.)

It's not until  everyone's heading to bed that you actually get to talk to him, and it's because he comes over to stand next to you, perfectly silent.

"Uh, hey," you say. He nods at you, and apparently it's a greeting. You can't tell whether he's looking at you, not with those ridiculous shades he's got on, and you wonder what the deal with those is, anyway.

"So, I don't think we've met?" you suggest; it's a stab in the dark, it really is, you've always hated small talk like this, but you think he knows you're struggling, because he turns and holds out a hand to you.

"Clementine," he says, and almost straight away you know it's a fake name.

"Indianna," you say in return, shaking his hand. He smiles like he knows exactly what you've done. It's too contagious not to smile back.

 

The second time, it's your third day traveling and your last day in India, and you are more than used to the heat by now. So is he, apparently, because he looks less than phased when you stop for a break. You've been backpacking with no rests for close to four hours now, and most of your group looks ready to collapse on the ground somewhere. You stop and sit down on a rock, knocking back the rest of your water, and then you notice him. He's standing about six metres away from you, skin white against the deep jungle greens and browns; it's less sweltering hot and more just _balmy_ today, humid; mostly everybody is sweating, but _he_ , well. He's taking his shirt off so close to you that you could seriously just stand up and take a few steps with your arm out and then you'd be _touching_ it, and God knows why you'd want to touch anyone else when the weather is this hot and _sticky_ , but watching him- good God, it's like you're gone already. Body all stretched and lithe and _there_ , the tightly corded muscles of his stomach stretching when he lifts his arms up to get the shirt over his head. Then he notices you staring, and winks. This is the same day that your buddy- chum, sort of friend, you think her name might begin with an A but she seems to know everything about _you_ after just one conversation- calls your name in front of him, and he grins so wickedly that you later have trouble falling asleep against the ugly flutter of your stomach at the memory of it.

 

The third time, you're in Greenland, and it's freezing cold. Dealing with freezing cold nights was another thing you slowly got un-used to, what with your dorm room being constantly heated in the Winter; you stupidly figured that as soon as you adapted to the heat you'd adapt to the cold, being the frigging buffoon that you are, and, now, well. Here you bloody are.

You're shivering uncontrollably in your tent for close to an hour when you give up and decide to go on a walk, and you have to admit that you look kind of ridiculous- a thermal, two shirts, two sweaters, the largest jacket conceivably known to man- but hey, at least you're sort of warm. Especially once you start moving around, and- then- dear _God_ \- once you see him standing, outlined against the snow and measly fire your group set before bed. He's missing his shades, this time, and his eyes are amber; no, that does them no justice, his eyes are stars, his eyes are the sun, his eyes are, fuck, the colour of clementine. He talks to you in a low, ephemeral voice that you try not to let encompass you beyond coherency (it does anyway); he's not wearing nearly enough layers, pretty much naked to the elements save for a thermal tank and cargo pants, so after a while of making small talk- the good kind, not the boring kind, you talk about animals that live in the snow and you talk about constellations, which he knows almost all the names of- you clear your throat, and say, "Jesus Christmas, guy, you must be freezing your behind off out here.  Don't you have anything warmer to put on?"

"Nah, I'm good," he says, but his arms are smattered with goose bumps and his teeth chatter when he smiles. "Besides, I didn't really pack for cold weather. Moving around was suiting me well enough."

You shake your head- pathetic, liberal, your thoughts are more covetous than you'd like given your current situation- and finally muster up the gall to suggest he comes back to your tent and you find him something warm to put on.

He holds up a hand, shaking his head. "Really, I'm fine-"

"Oh, please, I packed for the bloody apocalypse, you might as well borrow _one_ jacket."

So that's how you end up lying side by side in your roomy sleeping bag, its side unzipped to accommodate your two bodies, watching the sky- the milky way, out here, is a hazy cascade- through the clear roof. (Un-zip-able; you'd rather not.)

You don't know how long it's been, but at one point he's still shivering against you, even in your army green jacket, and you joke, "Y'know, we'd probably warm up faster if we had less clothes on. Body heat, and all that jazz."

What you do not expect, is for him to smirk, and say, "Okay."

And somehow, after some time, you're missing every one of your endless layers (and you mean this in every sense) and he's on top of you, and you're trying not to drown. He tastes too much of sweets, vaguely orange-flavoured, for his eyes to be that corrupt when he pulls away, often and momentarily, to stare you down like you're something to eat. You lick a long line from his collar bone to the underside of his chin, nip gently- "Ah"- nip harder- " _Ah_ "- nip _harder_ \- "Ah _, Jake_ "- and then kiss at his mouth, trying to determine the shape of it with your tongue, trying to, fuck, coalesce or something. His hands pull at your hips like he's looking for something to grab onto, something to anchor himself to you with. The drag of his fingers is filthy-hot, and you're hard before he even touches you properly.

When he does, you finish embarrassingly fast, huffing against his collarbones, and barely remember to grab at his dick in the process of your bones turning to jelly. He comes not long after you, which makes you feel a little better about your own desperation, muttering nonsensical things around the place he's hollowed out for himself on your shoulder. You don't even notice that he was biting down until he pulls away and there's blood on his lips. You kiss it away.

He leaves sometime after, and he's still wearing your jacket, and his voice, when he leans back in, is amused; "I'm Dirk Strider, by the way. But feel free to keep calling me 'Guy'."

Your name is Jake English, and holy _shit_ , you've found your other half.

 

The fourth time you're leaving Greenland, even though it's only been one day, because everyone is sick of the cold already; you hop on your budget flight to Venice, you backpack through the streets- bustling, alive, Christ, _beautiful_ \- and then stop at the bunkers to drop off your bags. You find Dirk out front already, like he's been waiting for you, and ask him if he wants to grab lunch with you. You want him to ask if it's a date, just so you can tell him that, yes, you have every intention of dating him, but he doesn't. He also asks to split the bill before you're even finished eating, which you think is unfair, but you say nothing. The sunset, outlined on the city skyline and reflected on the lake like a mirror, makes up for it; especially when Dirk inches closer to you, and then closer, and then closes the distance to lay his head on your shoulder. You're not on top of the world, but if you close your eyes, it is very, very easy to pretend.

 

The fifth time becomes the sixth and the seventh, and then just becomes _time_ , because he stops leaving your side as much. You kiss him breathless in Norway, London; in Paris, he gets down on his knees in the bathroom stall of The Musée du Louvre and sucks you speechless. He bruises his knees and you blunt your nails on the back of his neck. You can taste yourself on his tongue when you kiss him afterwards.

Paris, in a way, is when it all goes to Hell anyway; you tell him this later, as in, months later, but only when you think he's asleep (he isn't). It goes to Hell because Paris is where you hold his hand in front of the rest of the group, and Paris is where you start telling him about where you grew up, and Paris is where you rub your thumb over each one of his knuckles and tell him, when it is very quiet, that you think he's beautiful. (He laughs. You insist that he sleeps with you and you hold him very tight.)

Paris is also where you realise your real problem: you have a severe problem with being alone. This is strange, considering. Well, considering how you grew up, anyway; after your grandmother died, you were pretty much alone constantly. A guy got used to a lack of human touch. But then when you made the move with Jade, and you started spending every last minute of the day surrounded by people, well. A guy gets used to that, too. You just hadn't realised the full extent of the impact your three best friends had had on you until now. (And you realise because you're pathetically needy when Dirk isn't around, you pull him closer to you when he's sleeping, you make friends- have made friends- with everybody because you feel like being sick when they stand too far away from you.)

 

In Moscow he lets you fuck him flat on his back on top of the covers. His body is amorphous; it is indefinite, shapeless, incorporeal- countless plains of foreign countries you'll never be able to pronounce the proper names of in a million years- his hands find the uncharted territory of your body and set up home there, and everywhere, he sticks little flags, little engravings of his name; Dirk was here, Dirk was here, Dirk is _here now, stop breathing so hard_ , he tells you.

You want to be listless with your prep, but you're not; you're clumsy and impatient,  but then again, so is he, so it doesn't take long at all for the two of you to combine your efforts into something productive. He's panting even before you find his prostate, which you think is ridiculously sexy. You tell him this, and to your surprise, he blushes. This spurs you on; as you enter him, you tell him how tight he is; as you get to the hilt and hold still, you tell him how badly you want to fuck him.

" _Fuck_ , Jake," he whines- honest to God _whines_ , body stretched all wanton and lithe and- and, yeah, that about does it for your self control.

When he finishes, you try to pull out, but he doesn't let you, just squeezes around you and pulls your shoulders flush to his;

"Want you," he pants, in your ear, eyes gone all distant with orgasm. "Want you. Now. Finish in me."

 " _God_ ," you warble, miserably. He tries to thrust back against you.

" _Please_ , Jake."

You fuck into him so hard you see stars.

Afterwards, when you're tangled in each other and your heart beat sounds like a moth's wings against his, you tell him you love him, and he cries. So you say it again, and again, and again, muttered little praises and whispers of how wonderful- lovely, sweet, mellifluous, _perfect, Dirk, mine_ \- he is against his skin, every lovely last inch of it. Your love is incandescent, and it continues to shine on far past morning.

 

It's not until five days later that you talk about it: you're in Dubai, and it is your last night, and you find Dirk smoking on the edge of the hostel's balcony overlooking every last inch of city light.

"I didn't know you smoked," you say, raising an eyebrow at him.

He shrugs. "Sometimes." Something about the way he holds it makes you think that this is actually his first one.

Instead of pointing this out, you stand next to him, so that your hands are almost touching, and you stare at the scenery with him. It's a while before he talks again. "Did you really mean it, by the way? It's alright if you didn't, I'd just like to know."

"Mean what now?" you venture, quirking an eyebrow. The corner of Dirk's mouth quirks in tandem.

"Back in Russia, you told me you loved me."

"Oh," you say, looking back out at the city. "Well then, that's easy. Yes. Yes, I very much meant that."

Dirk breathes out, but he's not exhaling smoke; you don't have to look at him to recognise the subtle sigh he does sometimes. "How do you know?"

"Hm," you make a thoughtful noise, don't look at him lest you get lost without a map and end up kissing him instead of having this conversation, "well, my internal compass points North whenever I'm with you, I suppose. Oh, flipping Hell- the whole damn thing points North when I'm with you, every Godforsaken last inch of me."

Dirk is quiet for a while. Finally, "I'm sorry for crying on you, that was uncool. I've just... never really been _that_ , I guess."

"What, fucked?"

He scoffs. "Loved, you dingus."

Oh. "Oh."

He snickers at you. "Yeah."

You're both quiet, after that; cars roll by under you, busy, and you contemplate the vestige of your sane mind.

"It's bloody _gone_ ," you say after a while, and Dirk looks up at you.

"Huh?"

"My _mind_ , Dirk. You've ruined me for good, I just know it."

He's trying really hard not to smile. "Yeah, well, you're not the only one, English."

Five more cars speed by under you before he threads his fingers through yours. "...I love you too, if it means anything."

You look up, shocked. He won't look back. "Why wouldn't it mean something?"

Shrug. "You're probably going to just leave, anyway. When we get back. I know how these kinds of things work, I don't have my hopes up if you're worried about that."

You're shell-shocked. For a long time, you just look at him- and then the cars, again, and then him- and finally, you take his chin between your thumb and forefinger and kiss the very corner of his mouth, so gently it burns. "I'd never do that to _you_ , you great _idiot_. I meant what I said, and it's not as if I do this very often. When I say I love you, well- I'm _in_ love with you, is what I meant. So don't go acting like you know a damn single thing that I will or won't do once this trip is over."

"O-oh." His chin is trembling. He tries his hardest to steady it.

You smile, and kiss the corner of his mouth again. "Yeah."

His head hits your shoulder with a hollow _thunk_ that you can't be sure whether or not you imagined, and he cries, very quietly, while you run your hand up and down his back and tell him he's lovely, he's yours, you've got him, he is loved, _loved, Dirk, you are loved._

 

When the sun sets over India, red and hot and yours, Dirk takes his head out of the hollow in your shoulder and kisses you dizzy, until the molecules you're made up of are spinning mindless pirouettes somewhere intangible and exactly halfway between your mind and his. You stand at the summit of your love, the exact height you always imagined your heart would someday reach, mapping the nebulous territory of his skin with your fingertips.

Here, your heart lies shot.

Here, you are in love.

 

(And he is absolute. You are absolute. You kiss his lips and take your leave.

And the stars spin on.)

**Author's Note:**

> After we flew across the country we  
> got into bed, laid our bodies  
> delicately together, like maps laid  
> face to face, East to West, my  
> San Francisco against your New York, your  
> Fire Island against my Sonoma, my  
> New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho  
> bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas  
> burning against your Kansas your Kansas  
> burning against my Kansas, your Eastern  
> Standard Time pressing into my  
> Pacific Time, my Mountain Time  
> beating against your Central Time, your  
> sun rising swiftly from the right my  
> sun rising swiftly from the left your  
> moon rising slowly from the left my  
> moon rising slowly from the right until  
> all four bodies of the sky  
> burn above us, sealing us together,  
> all our cities twin cities,  
> all our states united, one  
> nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.


End file.
